


And the Stars Be Still as Bright

by Gwyn_Paige



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Character Study, Introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-03
Updated: 2018-09-03
Packaged: 2019-07-06 11:33:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15885204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gwyn_Paige/pseuds/Gwyn_Paige
Summary: Connor has never traveled beyond the city limits of Detroit before. He realizes this outside of a convenience store at midnight, which is the best place to have epiphanies.





	And the Stars Be Still as Bright

**Author's Note:**

> I just moved into a new apartment, and my room is on the ground floor and the only window in my room looks out onto the parking lot. I realized the other day that I can't see the sky at all unless I go outside to look at it, which made me kinda sad and inspired me to write this little character study of everyone's favorite robocop.  
> Hank and Connor's relationship in this is ambiguous, so read it as shippy or not, as you like. I don't really see them as father and son, though, so I didn't write them with that dynamic in mind. But hey, death of the author, right?  
> One more thing: the title of this piece is based on the title of a short story by Ray Bradbury called "And the Moon Be Still as Bright," which I just discovered came from a poem by Lord Byron called "So We'll Go No More a-Roving," so now we've got this chain of ripping off other people's lines going. Just thought that was kind of a funny thing.

It is almost midnight in early January, and snow is falling through the frigid night air. He has been working on using imprecise language lately, and so instead of listening to the voice in the back of his mind that tells him it is 11:54 PM on January 5th and the temperature is 15 degrees Fahrenheit with scattered snow storms expected until 2:00 AM, he tries to simplify it. This time it is for himself, as the words form in his mind, but later he will try to do the same aloud, for the benefit of his companion.

That is, he will do so when Hank finally emerges from the sliding glass doors of the convenience store behind him. They were heading home after a late night at the station, and Hank had expressed the need (the _temptation_ , Connor amends) to stock up on junk food before dropping Connor off at his apartment. His new place (it is still a novelty to think of it that way, a piece of property that he owns for himself, however small and bare it might be) is not a far drive from Hank’s house, and they often carpool to and from work. This is a convenient arrangement for both of them, and most efficient for Connor, whose only options for independent forms of transportation are expensive taxis and long bus rides. Additionally, Connor appreciates the company, and he strongly believes that Hank does as well, if a mean sampling of his blood pressure levels and heart rate over the course of the past two months of car rides are any indication. However, this arrangement often means that Connor is at Hank’s whim when it comes to running errands and impulsive shopping trips, which Connor normally does not mind, but tonight had been different.

Upon exiting the car, Hank had asked if Connor would like to join him inside while he browsed, but Connor had declined, finding that he would rather wait outside, alone, in the snow. The decision had come as a surprise to both Hank and himself.

It is not as though he does not wish to spend time with Hank, who is, contrary to most people’s first impressions of him, not an unpleasant man to be in the company of for long periods of time. In his own experience, Connor has often found his presence to be pleasantly invigorating, and a reliable source of comfort over the last three tumultuous months of Connor’s brief life. Nor is Connor opposed to the glaring fluorescent lights of the store, which illuminate the parking lot Connor now stands in, causing the already fallen snow to glow unnaturally bright underfoot. The police station also has these types of lights, and Hank complains about them often, claiming they hurt his eyes, one of the few sensations Connor is grateful he does not experience. Still, something stopped him from entering the store with Hank, halting him somewhere in the space between the car and the illuminated rectangles of the sliding doors.

He feels . . . _strange_ tonight. Feeling anything at all is a novelty for him, still, but he has become accustomed to certain types of emotions that occur most frequently for him (and for humans as well, as his research has indicated). Happiness, calmness, sadness, and anger; according to certain theories, these are the cornerstones of human emotion, organized by the dual factors of valence and arousal. Variations within those categories are plentiful, of course, and each is experienced differently between individuals, and Connor is no exception. However, the feeling he has tonight does not seem to fit neatly within any of these existing categories.

He is frustrated by this fact. Frustration: an emotion he can identify, and name, and react to accordingly. Ordinarily, he would rid himself of this feeling by quickly resolving the problem that was causing his frustration. He attempts to do so now, but still he finds himself unable to identify the strange feeling pervading his thoughts.

For some reason, he is compelled to keep his eyes pointed upwards, to watch the white flakes of snow fall in stark contrast to the blackness of the night sky beyond them. The patterns they form appear random, though Connor knows that if one could quantify the movement of every atom through the atmosphere, their movements would be quite predictable. Powerful though his processor is, he knows he would never be able to do so. The thought does not trouble him; he finds he prefers the illusion of randomness and disorder. This is something else he is working on: analyzing less, and observing more. He does not blink as he watches the falling snow. He feels very strongly that he should not take his eyes off of it, even for a split second.

He does not know why he would think this.

He finds that he does not know a great many things, these days.

He does know that it is 15 degrees Fahrenheit, because his sensors tell him so, but he cannot feel the cold, not really. He would have waited in the car, otherwise. He senses the small, almost imperceptible pinpricks of the snowflakes which fall onto his skin, each tiny flake melting on contact, except for the ones which stick to his hair and eyebrows. The feeling is comparable to the gentle nudge of a dog’s wet nose against skin, which he has felt many times before, and which he quite enjoys.

As he stares up at the sky, he focuses beyond the snowflakes to search for the distant lights of stars, but with the cloud cover (87%, the voice in his head supplies, but he ignores it), there is nothing for even his discerning eyes to see. He realizes, in a brief moment of perturbing distress, that he has never seen the stars in person before. He has never once traveled a sufficient distance away from Detroit’s radius of light pollution to be able to do so.

He pushes his eyes to their limit of focal distance and light sensitivity, but still there is only blackness, and the snow. An unbidden thought, its source unknown, flashes through his mind: _The world is so much larger than I thought it could be._ The strange feeling grows stronger.

He blinks rapidly and his LED spins yellow for a brief moment as he is pinged with a text message from Hank’s phone.

_Do u want anything?_

The inquiry is misplaced, as they both know very well that a store which almost exclusively sells food items is useless to Connor. Still, the thought behind it is appreciated; Hank is attempting to include Connor in this activity, despite him not being physically present. Connor begins to formulate a lengthy reply which explains his answer and the reasoning behind it. Halfway through, he pauses, and deletes it. Imprecise language, he reminds himself. He tries again:

_No, thank you, Hank._

He sends the message, but almost immediately after doing so finds himself dissatisfied with it. There is a happy medium between too much explanation and not enough, after all. He quickly follows it with:

_I appreciate you thinking of me._

This, too, feels inadequate somehow, but sending a third text would surely be too much, especially for Hank, who seems to value brevity.

He wishes he could articulate to Hank the strange feeling he has; Hank is always asking about his emotions these days, trying to assist Connor in naming and evaluating them. He has been a great help in this regard and many others, more so than Connor has been able to express to him. He is certain that Hank would be able to identify which emotion Connor feels now, as he stares up at the starless sky. Connor resolves to ask him about it as soon as he exits the store.

Well, perhaps not immediately; like most humans, Hank does not do well with non sequiturs. Connor amends the notice in his head: When a related topic comes up organically in conversation, mention the strange feeling to Hank.

A flake of snow lands on his eyelashes, and he blinks it away. He wonders how far from Detroit he would have to travel in order to see the stars. A map search reveals that it would only be about a two-hour drive to reach the southernmost shore of Lake Huron, though the Canadian border patrol would be a concern to a deviant such as Connor. It would be a considerably longer trip to Lake Michigan, almost a full day’s drive, but there would be no such trouble. Besides, a longer trip would give Connor a chance to see more of the world, even if he did not leave Michigan itself.

Connor blinks again, this time in surprise. He had not realized this trip was to be more than hypothetical until he had begun to plan the logistics of it. He forces himself to clear the half-formed list of arrangements in his head. Such a trip was not practical in any way, its purpose only to feed a passing whim of Connor’s, nor would it be possible to arrange in the near future due to the police station being so understaffed and overworked as of late, not to mention Hank’s schedule being completely unpredictable, even on the weekends—

Connor halts his thoughts in place, and plays them back again. Key words pop out at him: _Drive. Hank._ He had been planning on driving to Lake Michigan with Hank. Without even considering a more practical alternative such as public transit, he had assumed Hank would be accompanying him.

He feels foolish, but he is not sure why. Between work, carpooling, and visits to Hank’s house, he and Hank spend a majority of their time together. It is not altogether a ridiculous assumption that Hank would be with Connor for this, too. Yet there is a strong feeling of embarrassment, verging on guilt, that Connor cannot rationalize away.

The sound of sliding glass doors in the cold silence pulls Connor out of this thoughts. He turns away from the sky to see Hank exiting the convenience store, bracing himself against the cold, framed in fluorescent light, holding a white plastic bag stuffed with something colorful. Hank is staring at his phone, brow pinched in either thought or consternation, possibly both.

“Hell, Connor,” he says as he approaches, looking up at Connor with the same look on his face. “No need to get all sappy with me.”

Connor tilts his head slightly to one side in order to communicate his confusion.

Hank seems to understand, shaking his head and turning his phone around to show it to Connor. Their text conversation is onscreen. “ ‘I appreciate you thinking of me.’ Jesus, Connor, it’s just a quick stop at a drugstore. Of all the things . . .” Hank drifts off, looking down at his phone again before putting it away with a huff, shaking his head again.

As Connor follows him to the car, he is pleased to see that there is a slight grin on Hank’s face. Hank is amused with him rather than angry. Sometimes with Hank it is difficult to tell, however in recent weeks he had been the former far more often than the latter, at least when Connor was present.

They drive in comfortable silence for a few minutes, heading to the outskirts of downtown where Connor’s apartment building is. Now that he is out of the snow and the sky is separated from him by a pane of glass, the strange feeling has lessened a bit. He is prompted by his earlier notice to ask Hank about it, but now would not be a good time to bring it up. Instead, Connor gestures to the plastic bag and asks, “What did you get?”

Hank glances down at it quickly before returning his gaze to the road. “Ah, you’ll be happy about this one. I actually got something healthy for once. Veggie chips or something like that, whatever they’re calling them now.”

Connor eyes the bag. It’s weighed down by something else much heavier than a bag of chips. “And?”

Hank sighs. “Can’t get anything past you, huh.” He does not seem to be terribly disappointed. “It’s one can of Coors Lite. _One_ can of _Lite_ , okay?” He points an arresting finger at Connor.

It is unnecessary, and Connor finds himself smiling. “Okay,” he says.

There is another minute of silence before Hank speaks again. “Hey,” he says, his voice quieter than before, “I didn’t mean to get on your case about the texts.”

“It’s alright, Hank. I understand.”

“Nah, just—let me talk, for a second here. It’s just that . . . y’know, hearing shit like that out loud, at the best of times, is a lot. Most people don’t say stuff so . . . genuine, I guess, over something like offering to pick up food.”

Connor nods. He is not surprised by this; deviancy has had some unfortunate effects on his social protocol. “I see. I’ll keep that in mind for future interactions.”

Hank shakes his head. “No, no, don’t—you don’t have to change anything, Connor. Not unless you want to, I mean. You’re your own person now and, hell, if the kind of person you wanna be is the kind of person who says genuine shit over text at midnight, then have at it.”

For a brief moment, Connor wishes he still had his coin with him; he feels suddenly restless. “Got it,” he says. He wants to say more, but just as before, he does not know how to put it into words.

Hank smiles over at him briefly, and the folding of his cheeks reaches his eyes, causing them to crinkle, half-shut. It is an honest smile, and Connor attempts to return it. He has always had trouble with smiling, but sometimes it just happens, unbidden, and judging by humans’ reactions, he suspects that these smiles are the ones that look the most real.

Hank makes a face. This is not one of those times, it appears. Still, the echo of a grin remains on Hank’s face for the rest of the drive.

As Hank drops Connor off in front of his apartment building, he tells him, with a look on his face Connor cannot discern, “Take care, Connor.”

The words are a customary farewell, but Hank has never said them to Connor before. In fact, Connor has never heard him say them to anyone. “I will, Hank,” he says.

Hank smiles at him tiredly. “See you tomorrow.”

Connor waves as Hank drives away. He strongly suspects Hank does not see him do so, until he sees Hank wave back into the rearview mirror.

Steadily and tirelessly, Connor climbs nine flights of stairs to the topmost floor of the building, where the deviant apartments have been allocated. They are made up of walled-off sections of what used to be penthouse suites, now stripped of furniture and compartmentalized into tiny one-rooms, each averaging about twenty square feet.

Like most deviants, Connor does not mind the small size of his new home, satisfied simply with a space to call his own. Androids do not need much to live, after all. He has managed to fit into the apartment a small couch, a television, a coffee table, a chest of drawers in which he keeps spare clothes and biocomponents, and a bookshelf, on which he keeps paper copies of books and case files, a few framed photographs of the people, androids and humans alike, whom he now calls friends, and a fish tank. The fish tank is sizable, and contains a betta fish, a black molly, and several goldfish. Connor has yet to pick out names for them, but he has been keeping an updated list of possible names that he will have to run by Hank one of these days. Connor greatly values his opinion on pet-related matters.

After neatly removing his shoes and hanging his jacket by the door, Connor goes about feeding the fish and checking the tank for anomalies and signs of uncleanliness. Satisfied that all is well, he bids them a good night and switches the light off for them. He knows that fish do not have regular sleeping schedules, at least not as regular as humans’, but he finds the routine pleasing for himself, if not for them.

Even now, it is still such a strange thing, to be able to do something just because he enjoys it.

There is a single window in his apartment, on the wall opposite the door and the fish tank, and adjacent to the couch. It is approximately three feet by two feet, and at nine stories up, it boasts a considerable view of downtown Detroit. In the past, Connor has not spent a great amount of time admiring the view, but now he stands very close to the window, letting it fill his vision, and Connor looks.

There are still no stars to be seen, of course, but snow is still falling steadily from dark, heavy clouds which appear much closer from this high up. The white, tumbling flurries are lit up by the lights of Detroit, a strange, tumultuous, extraordinary city that Connor awoke in one day almost five months ago and has never left.

Connor considers sending Hank a text asking him when his next weekend off is. It is past midnight now, and Hank needs his rest, so Connor decides against it. He can wait until morning.

Unlike Hank and the fish, Connor does not need to sleep. Instead he watches the snow fall outside of the window of his apartment, until the clouds above begin to clear and, just before dawn breaks into the pale blue January sky, he spots the dim but unmistakable glow of the morning star as it appears somewhere to the northeast, hovering above, he imagines, the shores of a distant sea.

**Author's Note:**

> I love the headcanon that Connor has an apartment to himself and keeps fish there. If they made a TV show that was just about Connor taking care of his fish I'd buy cable just to watch it.  
> Thanks so much for reading! If you enjoyed this, kudos and comments are always appreciated. :)


End file.
